The number of books, says Borges,
in all the libraries in all the cities
of the world, outnumber the grains
of sand on every beach combined;
outnumber the stars in the whole vastness
of the universe. And this may be true.
But I must believe, then, that the world is hollow.
There is no hot molten core.
No layers of crust and mantle. No,
beneath this thin façade on which we walk
is nothing more than tunnels filled with books,
rows upon rows of shelving,
each shelf crammed to bursting, and ladders
that take you down from level to level
until you reach the center of the planet.
But there, it cannot end, not if it must rival
infinity; a dimension must be crossed
and on we go, shelf upon shelf,
ladder after ladder, world upon world.
Paul Ilechko has always lived by a river, although he sometimes dreams of forests and mountains. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. Paul has had poetry accepted/published recently by Oberon Magazine, Dash Literary Journal, Stickman Review, MockingHeart Review and Saint Katherine Review, among others.